


The Flower blooming in adversity

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crushes, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Kuzupeko - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9737708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: Peko’s first brush with love is like a cherry blossom: fascinating to behold and gone with the sweep of the wind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

It’s a day like any other at the dojo. The sun is still out, the weather is temperate, and Peko wraps up her kendo lesson as usual.

Before they leave, she and the rest of the class run back and forth across the floor with their washcloths, a ritual that serves to clean the space they’ve just occupied while simultaneously cooling down their muscles after a rigorous day of training. Peko goes through her share of the cleaning regime with vigor, thankful once more for the opportunity she’s been given. When her classmates have finished up their end, she gathers the wash bucket and heads towards the back to discard the used water.

“Pekoyama, here, let me help.”

One of her classmates, Souji Suzuki, comes up beside her and takes the bucket from her hands. She lets it go willingly. Though she is perfectly capable without his help, it is not wholly unwelcome.

“Ah. Thank you,” she says.

Suzuki smiles and bobs his head a bit, bright blue eyes meeting hers. His gaze seems to linger longer than normal. It’s a curiosity, but he leaves too quickly for her to ponder it for more than a second.

Just as she starts to gather her belongings, another classmate, Hazuki Mizukawa, grabs her by the wrist. Peko tenses. Her first instinct would be to throw the intruder over her shoulder just like any assassin would, but Mizukawa does not attack, merely leans in close and asks, “Pekoyama, what’s going on with you and Suzuki?”

Peko furrows her brow, confused.

Midori Honda comes in and flanks her other side, and suddenly Peko is feeling very, very crowded. “Didn’t you see his eyes? He _must_ like you.”

“… ‘Like me?’” Peko repeats.

“You _know._ He has _feelings_ for you.”

“Don’t you think they would make a good-looking couple? Pekoyama is at the top of the class and Suzuki is so handsome. Ah, I would be so jealous if they were dating!”

“Pekoyama, what will you do if he confesses to you?”

Confesses? Dating? Couple? These are all terms that don’t make a lick of sense in the given context, and here these two girls are simpering at her feet like her word is law. She doesn’t know what they want from her, but she’s entirely certain she can’t give it to them. “Excuse me,” she says, shaking her wrist free and brushing past them.

(“So cold,” Honda murmurs.)

(“But maybe that’s what Suzuki likes.”)

  


  


  


Looking back, Peko waves the moment off as nothing more than an anomaly in an otherwise normal day, but the passing days prove to be no less peculiar. She comes to the dojo three times a week and Mizukawa and Honda are suddenly always in the background, trying to catch her eye and launching themselves into an endless series of questions when they manage.

They ask what she thinks of Souji Suzuki and she answers frankly: He is above-average at kendo—he has strength in his strikes and his footwork is impeccable—but he does not take full advantage of his opponents’ openings. (He does not have the killing spirit like she does, and so there is always hesitation in his movements. This thought she keeps to herself.)

Her assessments don’t seem to appease them though. They want to know what she thinks about his eyes and his hair and his smile. The sudden change in direction makes her knit her brows. She’s not quite sure what that has to do with her, but she’s overheard enough of the young mistress’s television dramas to recognize these are questions one might ask of a girl and her object of affection—

_Oh._

As soon as the thought invades her mind, it refuses to leave. She is suddenly aware of Suzuki at all times, where he stands and his proximity to her. It is not so different as any other day where she feels out the room and anything within a fifteen meter radius. She is aware because she cannot ever afford to be unaware. But this awareness of Suzuki is strange somehow. It is like she is a canary anxiously waiting for the cat to snap knowing the cat has no fangs.

She wonders if this is a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, that she is only so conscious of Suzuki’s presence because he has drawn attention to it. Without the meddling of Mizukawa or Honda, surely she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

Despite her newfound understanding of the situation, the questions about Suzuki do not cease. If anything, they increase twofold. Mizukawa and Honda titter about increasingly ridiculous scenarios as though they’ve been lifted straight from one of the young mistress’s gossip magazines, like going on movie dates or making chocolates for Valentine’s Day. It’s absurd. Peko wishes she could avoid them altogether, but to miss weekly training is unthinkable, and so she swallows her apprehensions and tries to calm the tempest stirring in her chest.

But Suzuki is another matter entirely.

Peko shakes her head. This is pointless. Mizukawa and Honda are simply cooking up a fantasy to fit their own narrative. Whether he likes her or not, Suzuki has never made an impact on her life and he never will. So after lessons are over, she tries to leave the dojo promptly, before either Mizukawa or Honda can hound her any more than they already have.

“Pekoyama!” Suzuki hollers, hurrying after her before she can reach the locker room. “You dropped this.” He holds out the small white ribbon she uses to keep her kendo armor tied together neatly.

“… Thank you,” she says, taking the ribbon from his outstretched hand. Their fingers touch for the briefest of moments, bare skin upon bare skin, and Peko jerks her hand away as if she’d been burnt.

“Something wrong?” Suzuki asks.

“No,” Peko answers quickly and walks away.

She catches Mizukawa watching her from across the room. Mizukawa smiles knowingly, a clear sign that she saw the whole exchange.

Peko averts her gaze.

  


  


  


Her head spins with questions on her walk back to the Kuzuryuu estate.

Just what has she gotten herself into? True, she does not recall doing anything particular that may have invited these sentiments, but if what Mizukawa and Honda are saying is true, then she’s fooled Suzuki into believing she is somebody worthy of love.

Love…

It has been difficult, playing at being a real girl. She does not know how anyone could handle this much hassle in their life. Too many emotions, too many things to balance in order to emulate being something she is not. She cannot help but feel sorry for Suzuki. He must have no idea what he’s getting into, pinning his affections on her, and she cannot imagine he’d be very happy to learn the truth.

Love…

Affection…

Couple…

Confession…

Human…

“Hey!” A hand darts out, grabbing the back of her shirt and yanking her away from the crosswalk just as a delivery truck whizzes by. “Watch where you’re going, idiot!”

Peko blinks a few times until everything comes back into sharp focus. The young master is glaring at her, one hand still lightly gripping the fabric of her shirt. How embarrassing. A trained hitman nearly caught in a traffic accident due to simple negligence. She smooths out the front of her skirt and bows deeply at the waist. “That was careless of me. Thank you, and I apologize, young master.”

The young master snorts, but looks up at her more in curiosity than anger. “The hell’s up with you?”

“It is nothing. Please do not worry yourself. How was your day, young master?” He throws her a dubious look, clearly unaffected by her diversion. The young master is thirteen and incredibly perceptive for his age. Peko sighs and relents. “… I have been informed that one of the boys at the dojo may have… feelings for me.”

Curiosity morphs into surprise. “What? … Really?”

“Yes. It is…” she searches for the word, “troublesome. This has never happened to me before, and I am not entirely sure what to do.”

The young master blinks owlishly, eyebrows up to his hairline. He says nothing as they cross the street, and Peko considers the matter dropped until he speaks up a few minutes later. “Well do you like him back?”

“… I… What?”

“Do you like him back?” The young master’s voice betrays a hint of irritation.

“… I don’t know. I do not find him disagreeable.” She thinks back to Mizukawa and Honda’s nagging questions. What does she think about his eyes? His hair? His smile? Nothing out of the ordinary, but certainly nothing that would suggest the opposite either. She supposes she _could_ consider him good-looking, but even this she sees through an objective lens, not necessarily one of fondness, and to truly analyze what that means would take her days. Annoyingly, these answers only seem to beg more questions. “Young master, what should I do?”

He chokes. “Why are you asking me?! You either like him or you don’t. Simple!”

If only it were just that. Then she could have waved off the matter and moved on with her life, but still the question clings to her like a bad dream. _Troublesome_ really is the word for it.

But perhaps she can still move on, whether she gets her answer or not. Not all mysteries are meant to be solved and to expect any different would be foolish.

So for now, this will suffice.

Peko nods to herself. “I do not believe I have the time to waste on such frivolities. How I feel about the matter is irrelevant. Besides, the clan would be displeased. It would distract me from fulfilling my duties as your tool.”

“ _FUCK THAT.”_ The young master’s outburst startles her so much she jumps back a step. “Who gives a shit about that?! _Tool_ this, _tool_ that, that’s all you ever say! Just quit with the fucking bullshit already! You go do whatever the hell you want, got it?!”

His face is scarlet and his teeth are clenched and Peko is so stunned she can only nod. The young master snorts and stalks off, refusing to speak to her the rest of the way home. She waits a few paces before trailing after him like a chastised puppy.

It has always angered the young master to be reminded of her duties as a tool. It must be vexing to be saddled with someone like her. The young master doesn’t need her; he hasn’t needed her for years and yet here she is, hanging uselessly at his elbow because she has no where else to go.

Not for the first time, Peko laments how terribly unfortunate that must be for him.

  


  


  


During their next lesson at the dojo, after warm-ups are done, her teacher has them running practice matches for the rest of the day. It’s a blissful reprieve from the whirlwind of “hows” and “what ifs” surrounding her lately; exactly what she needs to refocus her energy. She’s caught up in watching two of her classmates duel, how Kijimuta pivots on his feet, how Takabe overextends and misses his mark.

This is something she can understand, something she can categorize into good and bad and right and wrong.

 _Go do whatever the hell you want,_ the young master said. She wants to forget about Suzuki, even if just for a moment.

Kijimuta comes away the victor. (Takabe needs to work on his posture.) They bow to each other and return to their places at the sidelines with the rest of the class.

“Next. Pekoyama,” her teacher calls. She rises to her feet and steps up to one side of the ring, eager to put her energy into something worthwhile. Normally her teacher will partner up the class by gender, but she is the only exception.

“Suzuki.”

(Her grip around her sword tightens, just a bit.)

As Suzuki picks up his sword and steps up to the opposite end of the ring, Peko tries to calm the subtle twisting in the pit of her stomach by taking even breaths through her nose. In, out. In, out. There is no trick here, nothing surprising. This isn’t the first, second, or even fifth time she’s sparred with Suzuki, and this time won’t be any different.

They step to each other and cross swords.

The sound of bamboo sliding against bamboo fills the otherwise silent room. They take the first few moments to size each other up, gauging for opportunities and reaction times. He is as she remembers him. Quick on his feet but hesitant to act. Which means she has initiative on her side. He wavers just a second too long and Peko finds her opening, delivering a clean strike to the top of his head. _“Men!”_

“Point! Pekoyama.”

She doesn’t waste time on celebrating, merely gathers her wits to prepare for the next round. She feels no sense of vanity or egotism for her point against Suzuki, but at the same time, she is not surprised.

They return to their starting positions and cross swords again.

She admits, he is far more impressive than she remembers. Suzuki stands before her, his sword raised confidently and his fighting spirit strong. Just as she assessed, he is a notable opponent, but conquerable. She attacks first again, springing forward with her sword raised for another strike to the head, but before she can manage to score the hit, Suzuki feints left and strikes her sharply on the wrist. _“Kote!”_

“Point! Suzuki.”

Behind the slats of her helmet, Peko’s eyes widen. It’s been _months_ since anybody’s been able to score a point on her and the room has taken notice. She knows it is unbecoming to underestimate an opponent, and yet the fact remains. How did she let this happen? She feels the eyes of her teacher on her back. (If this had been out in the field she’d be down one less hand, and then where would she be?)

Enough. This isn’t the time to feel sorry for herself. It’s just one more reminder that she is not yet perfect, and until that day arrives, she cannot let anything distract her.

They cross swords again and begin.

He’s learned her movement patterns just as much as she’s learned his. But will that predictability be to her advantage? Suzuki skirts to the left and she follows. They strike at each other once, twice, bamboo clacking together. When she tries for a hit to his side, he pivots on his feet and comes away safe. He circles back to the right, she follows, stepping in close enough to see the fierceness in his eyes. He releases a guttural yell and she matches his intensity. She narrowly avoids another strike to her wrist, the tip of his sword hitting the base of hers. She rocks back on her heels to give herself space to recover. They bounce back and forth on their feet, dancing around each other as Peko feels for an opportunity, a moment, anything. Suzuki makes one more unsuccessful attempt at her head and that’s when she sees her opening, _t_ _here._ He’s expecting another hit to his side but there’s that small window where he’s left his throat open. A risk she can and _will_ take.

This is for _honor_ —

This is for _justice_ —

She _cannot_ let him win—

With a feral cry, she leaps, stamps her foot down and thrusts her sword forward—

_“Tsuki!!”_

“Point! Match, Pekoyama.”

Peko takes a few steps back, surprised at how out of breath she is. Sweat clings to her forehead, soaking through the cloth wrapped over her hair. This has been… an experience. Something unexpected, perhaps even gratifying, and she hadn’t thought Suzuki could find more ways to surprise her.

They return to their starting positions, lower their swords, and bow.

Suzuki’s blue eyes reflect a sense of awe and respect. He flashes her a bright smile that, even behind the mask, brings out the boyishness of his face. “Well fought, Pekoyama.”

Peko takes a second longer than necessary to nod.

(Behind her, Mizukawa and Honda whisper conspiratorially.)

  


  


  


Choosing to leave the matter alone may have been a mistake.

Thoughts of Suzuki start to bleed into more than time spent training. Peko finds herself writing Souji Suzuki’s name into the margins of her notebook over and over again, as if she can transfer the thoughts in her head onto paper for good. She is dismayed to say he’s crept into her dreams once or twice when her dreams are normally empty and black. Even school lectures provide her little peace of mind, not when she spots the characters of Suzuki’s name peeking out from the corner of her notebook.

She snaps the notebook closed.

She ran and hid and fought against all implications with the excuse that it was none of her concern. But it _is_ her concern. At least, it is _now._ Why else would something affect her so badly? Peko doesn’t remember ever being this confused in her life. And if she cannot hide and she cannot ignore it, then perhaps the best solution is to let the matter run its course.

Once school is finished and she is dismissed for the day, she decides to go to the dojo earlier than normal. (She texts the young master to let him know of her plans. She doesn’t get a response.)

The heels of her loafers provide a rhythmic sound against the pavement as Peko walks to the dojo. She is a wall and she is a force, and even if she does not have a clear assessment of her opponent, she cannot back down. She must _act,_ take her opportunity while the opening is there.

… She’s not entirely sure what that _means_ yet, but it must be infinitely better than waiting around.

She stops walking for a moment and looks down at her hands. Unconsciously, she’s left eight red crescent marks in her palms. She flexes her fingers a bit and resumes walking.

There’s also the matter that Suzuki has yet to truly verbalize his affections. Her heartbeat quickens at the thought. People— _real_ people—are blessed with the opportunity of finding love. And Suzuki is… kind. He is talented and gracious and he does not deserve to be hurt. And while she has many expectations placed upon her, this has never been one of them. She doesn’t know how to be anyone’s girlfriend, or lover, or love, whatever the word for it is.

(… But perhaps she could learn?)

“ _Pekoyama, what will you do if he confesses to you?”_ Mizukawa’s question hangs heavy in her mind.

She honestly doesn’t know.

She expects the place to be empty, but as she slides open the door to the dojo, she’s surprised to see Souji Suzuki already there looking equally surprised to see her.

“Ah… Pekoyama…”

“Suzuki. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.”

She looks around. _“Shishou_ is…?”

“Out at the moment. He will be in shortly.”

“I see.”

Suzuki is in the middle of cleaning. Not knowing what else to do, she offers to help. He hands her one of the rags. They set about cleaning the floor, their gazes drifting to anywhere but each other. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since learning of the possible feelings he may harbor for her. It will be another hour before the rest of the class arrives.

“Pekoyama?”

“Yes?”

“Has Mizukawa been telling you anything… strange? About me?”

Ah, of course. Mizukawa and Honda must have done some extra meddling on the side. Still, Peko does not see the need to lie. “She’s mentioned something.”

“I see.” He stops cleaning for a moment and looks down bashfully at his feet. “So you must have heard… about…” He goes pink.

Peko only nods.

“I see,” he says again.

Silence.

She does not know where they go from here. Is she meant to reciprocate? And how is she meant to do that if he has yet to say the words? Choosing to act is harder than she’d anticipated. This is not at _all_ like Young Mistress Natsumi’s television dramas; no music cues or scripted lines or even a very clear direction.

In the end, Suzuki acts first. He clears his throat and when she turns to him, the look in his eyes manages to hold her gaze. “Pekoyama. There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Peko holds her breath. (Her pulse quickens, just a bit—)

“I don’t think I can love someone like you.”

(—and then resumes its normal pace.)

“… ‘Like me?’” Peko repeats.

“Someone so cold,” he supplies. “You are… a difficult girl to understand, Pekoyama. I admit I’d been intrigued at first. I thought, perhaps, there may be something beautiful and warm beneath all that ice, and I could be the one to find it. But I came to realize that it would be wrong of me to expect something from you that may not be there at all. That’s why I think it’d be hard to love someone like you. I cannot pursue a fantasy. It’s unfair to the both of us.” He looks to her regretfully. “I would like it if we could put this behind us. I’m sorry to have to be so blunt.”

Peko shakes her head. “No. There is nothing to apologize for.”

They clean in silence.

  


  


  


The next day proceeds as normal; she goes to school, meets with the young master, and accompanies him back home. He walks a few paces in front of her, bookbag slung casually over his shoulder. It’s been a comfortable routine since entering middle school together, one that doesn’t often change, but their walks home have been silent for the past few weeks. She cannot complain. The young master owes her nothing.

“Suzuki does not have feelings for me,” she says abruptly. She doesn’t know why she’s bringing it up, but she feels the need to. The young master was very generous to listen to her troubles the first time around. The least she can do is inform him that this nonsense with Suzuki has been put to an end.

The young master stops walking and turns wide eyes on her. “No?”

“No.”

He blinks and says nothing more as he resumes his pace, but for some reason she doesn’t fully comprehend, the air seems lighter, less muddled. Perhaps he really _had_ been concerned about how she’d be able to perform her duties as his tool. Immediately she is struck with the guilt of having put the young master through even an ounce of stress.

Everything is as it should be.

But even with the matter all said and done, something still eats away at her thoughts. “Young master,” she blurts out, surprised at her own initiative. He cocks his head in her direction. “Am I…” she searches for the word, “unlovable?”

“What the hell?!” The young master whirls on her, eyes narrowed. “He tell you that?!”

“No. I… Hm.” It is unlike her to be so lost with words. (The young master’s reaction is also a curiosity but one she cannot focus on just yet.) “It was just a thought. Though I cannot deny that my conversation with Suzuki may have spurred it.”

“And what he said made you think that? That you’re unl… unlov… u-unl-lova…” He stumbles with the word for a second more before making a vague gesture with his hands. _“… That.”_

“He said it would be a waste of our time. He is a very intelligent person. He did not say anything that was not true.”

“He sounds like an ass,” the young master hisses. His shoulders bunch up to his ears the way they get when he’s particularly annoyed. He kicks at a rock in their path, but he misses and lets out a frustrated growl. He tries again and manages to kick the rock with an unnecessary amount of force. Peko watches it skip across the pavement before clattering against the side of a building.

“… Hey, Peko,” he says, softer. “I don’t know what else he told you, but don’t listen to this Shizuki guy.”

“Suzuki.”

“Whatever. The point is, he doesn’t know the first thing about you, so he doesn’t have any right to tell you what you are or not.” He glances at her expectantly, but she can do little more than give him a quizzical look. “I mean you’re… you should… _be_ whoever you want to be. Like with or without him, y’know? _Augh._ Am I making any sense?!” He scrubs a hand furiously through his hair. “What I _mean_ is, he’s not worth your time. He says one thing and then, what, he chickens out at the last second? Drags you through all that shit for nothing and has the nerve to say it was a _waste of time?_ Doesn’t even have the decency to think about what that’ll do to you? Fucking _coward._ So fuck him. Guys like that are a dime a dozen. You don’t need that kind of person in your life, so don’t worry about what he thinks, get me?”

Peko looks up to the sky.

That’s right, isn’t it? Her role is defined. There’s no need to worry about one classmate’s thoughts when she already has honor and the clan and the young master in her life—the young master most of all—and it’s enough. She feels foolish for not seeing it sooner, but to be by the young master’s side feels as natural as breathing. How can it not? They’ve been together for as long as she can remember. She was never wrong to place her honest faith in him, this boy who grows closer and closer to leading the clan with so much capability everyday, and if he can do this for her, then she’s certain he can do anything. And cursed be anyone who tries to take that away. Not when she’s around. It is her duty to keep him safe—more than that, it is her _desire_ _._

And what Souji Suzuki thinks of her doesn’t matter.

“… I think I understand,” she says, moving her gaze from the sky to his eyes. (How bright they seem today.) For the first time in weeks, it feels like she can finally breathe. “Thank you, young master.”

“Don’t call me that.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, but the tips of his ears have gone pink, matching the natural rosiness of his cheeks. “And. Y’know. Whatever.”

They continue on their way home.

The silence that stretches between them is no longer that stifling air, but something easy and comfortable. She knows she doesn’t deserve it, but Peko quickens her pace and tries to keep closer to the young master’s side instead of so many steps behind. It’s not _directly_ by his side, but it’s very close, far closer than she’s ever dared before. The young master says nothing about her newfound proximity, so she takes his silence as permission.

Her gaze drifts to him for a second longer than she’ll normally allow herself. She revels in the comfortable quiet for a bit more before asking the young master how his day has been.

For now, she has her place in the world. And that’s fine. More than fine. She can do better than Suzuki, just like the young master says.

And if the young master believes so, then it must be true.


End file.
